


You've such a lovely temperature

by RC_McLachlan



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dialogue-Only, Humor, M/M, No Beach Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 00:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2129886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/pseuds/RC_McLachlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm just imagining your syllabus. <em>Week 3: How To Flay A Man with a Spoon in 90 Minutes or Less.</em> I'm sure the parents will have no objections."</p><p>"Flaying is an outdated practice that is fit for only the barbaric. And it takes too long. Much easier to just compress a body into a tiny metal box and bury it on the side of the highway."</p><p>"… I'm truly speechless."</p><p>"Let's mark the date; it will probably never happen again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've such a lovely temperature

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing. I'm trying to get back into the writing groove, which is proving to be easier said than done as of late. [Come find me on Tumblr](http://rcmclachlan.tumblr.com) if you want to see what real procrastination looks like (as well as a veritable deluge of space and pictures of Chris Pine).
> 
> Title from "A Farewell to Arms," by Ernest Hemingway.

"Math."

"No. Physical education."

"This is to be a school, not a military recruitment camp. Romantic languages."

"Absolutely not. Weaponry and defense."

"Oh yes, let's arm Alex and Sean with some broadswords, because I can see no way in which that brilliant idea could possibly fail. European history."

" _Everything was fine until the British Empire showed up. Class dismissed._ What about anatomy and physi—what's _that_ look for?"

"I'm just imagining your syllabus. _Week 3: How To Flay A Man with a Spoon in 90 Minutes or Less_. I'm sure the parents will have no objections."

"Flaying is an outdated practice that is fit for only the barbaric. And it takes too long. Much easier to just compress a body into a tiny metal box and bury it on the side of the highway."

"… I'm truly speechless."

"Let's mark the date; it will probably never happen again."

"What about remedial comedy, since you seem so adept at it."

"You could be a guest speaker. American literature."

"A days-long stretch of you railing against the ending of _A Farewell to Arms_? I'd rather deal with Sean wielding a broadsword."

"If I was forced to read that schlock, then I should be able to make others suffer the same."

"Your logic astounds, as always, darling."

"Checkmate."

"Drat. Hm… What about chess?"

"… That… has merit."

"You hesitated. Why are you smiling like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like… _that!_  What kind of smile is that supposed to be?"

"Reassuring."

"Perhaps on someone with fewer teeth. The possibility of teaching chess shouldn't make _anyone_ smile reassuringly, let alone _you_. What exactly are you planning?"

"Chess is a game of strategy and patience—skills of which no child has, and I am certainly not going to coddle them into learning such things. They'd grow bored before long with regular chess."

"'Regular chess', as opposed to…?"

"Extreme chess. Care for a drink?"

"Scotch and a splash of water, if you would, thank you. I'm almost afraid to ask, but curiosity has always been my downfall. What is extreme chess and how do you—ah, perfect, you remembered the ice—how do you plan on teaching it?"

"First, I drop the student somewhere in Syracuse with a head wound—"

"No."

"—and they'll make their way back to Westchester County under their own power, using their own resourcefulness."

" _No_."

"It may possibly involve taking rides from strangers with designs on their virtue. Stop laughing, Charles, it's unbecoming a professional to make fun of a peer."

"I'm not l-laughing _._ T-This isn't funny. No, shut up—"

"Once they return— _if_ they return—I will be waiting in the garden. The game will already be in play, and they'll be in check. They'll have to find their way out of check and go on to win the game in under 15 minutes. I will then administer the actual test."

"Erik—"

"Once they finish, they get medical attention. Maybe. Depends on how they do on the essay. It counts for 206% of their grade."

"I can't believe I never realized what an utter nitwit you are."

"You own at least thirty cardigans; you've no room to cast stones. Besides, I'm not a nitwit. I have been told I am mysterious and cool beyond all measure on many occasions."

"It doesn't count if you have to frighten people into saying it."

"That has never happened."

"Don't lie to a telepath. Leaving the pretenses of your character aside for a moment—"

"Hey."

"—This still doesn't solve the problem of what you will be responsible for teaching when the school opens."

"I still don't understand why the red demon gets to teach art history, while the best I get is _romantic languages_."

"You speak Italian and French so wonderfully, though. And Azazel didn't get his education by infiltrating the odd museum to pawn off stolen artwork in exchange for information on former Nazis."

"He didn't get an education, period. I'm in the headmaster's bed every night; shouldn't I get first pick? Show a little favoritism, Charles."

"I did, which is why Raven is teaching kinesthetic writing."

"That still makes no sense."

"It does to her, which is all that matters. I'm sorry, but unless you're willing to pick your way through the rise and fall of the Grand Duchy of Moscow—"

"Make Azazel do it. He's _actually Russian_."

"That doesn't mean he's well-versed in his country's history."

"What makes you think I am?"

"You know more than most. Why is that?"

"What better way for Shaw to demonstrate how badly humans handle power than by using actual examples?"

"Oh, Erik, I didn't—"

"It's fine. At least the Mongols were interesting; I can't quite say the same about anything else. History isn't my forte. American literature _could_ be, provided I get to leave that drunken hack out of my course."

"Hemingway is a staple of American literary history, so no."

"It explains a lot about this country."

"Erik."

"Fine. European history's out, as is American literature. Art history is _taken_ for ridiculous reasons, Extreme chess was vetoed, and I'm not going to listen to a gaggle of hormone-ridden toddlers butcher Portuguese for months on end, so no romance languages. Where does that leave me, Charles? Guidance counselor?"

"Good lord, no. I mean that in the nicest way, of course."

"… Of _course_."

"Oh, Erik, I don't know. Is there anything you love—actually love—enough to want to impart that same joy and emotion onto children? I… I'm just realizing I don't know this about you. I don't know your likes and dislikes. Hobbies. Do you have hobbies?"

"No, I'm a machine that trundles alongside the living during the day and plugs into the wall to recharge at night. Yes, Charles, I have hobbies."

"Oh? Ones that don't involve tossing children from high places?"

"Yes."

"… Well?"

"You never asked me to specify."

"I'm asking now, you overgrown child."

"My other hobbies include tossing short telepaths from windows. Or they will shortly."

"Be serious, Erik."

"It's… It's perhaps a bit…"

"Erik. My dear, are you embarrassed?"

"No."

"You are! You're blushing. Oh, Erik. You've allowed me to natter your ear off about Mendelian inheritance for hours on end—You must know that you can trust in me the things that bring you joy, as well."

"I enjoy hearing you talk."

"I'll ignore the fact that  _listening_ should have been the word there and take it for the compliment I'm sure it was supposed to be."

"Don't be obtuse."

"Don't deflect. Tell me."

"You mean you don't already know?"

"I haven't so much as _brushed_ against your thoughts without express permission, and you know it. There are other ways of making you talk."

"What happened to express permission?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of, uh, denial. In certain situations."

"… Well."

"Indeed. Now stop stalling, or I shall be forced to resort to underhanded tactics, like regaling you with boring childhood anecdotes that involve boring tea parties with relatives. All of them end with my mother falling out of her chair or dress or both, and my stepbrother torturing squirrels."

"I actually want to hear those."

"Trust me, you don't. Now out with it."

"…ry."

"What was that?"

"Po…ry."

"I may be telepathic, but my ears are the same as everybody else's—"

" _Poetry_ , Charles. For the love of god."

"I… really?"

"And what of it?"

"No, nothing, darling. I'm just surprised, is all."

"Why? The Nazi-hunting megalomaniac can't enjoy a bit of verse and rhyme?"

"I never said that. It's just… You've never once expressed an interest in it, not even when Sean was composing lines that day in the atrium—"

"If you consider that poetry, I'm getting up and leaving."

"I mentioned Robert Frost the other morning and you said nothing!"

"You know the adage 'if you have nothing nice to say…'? I was doing you and everyone at the breakfast table a kindness."

"You don't like _Frost_?"

"His work is utter tripe."

"Oh, honestly, Erik. That's a bit harsh, even for you. He's a celebrated master of the art. If I didn't know any better, I'd say your supposed love for poetry is nothing more than—"

" _Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —_  
_Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night_  
_And watching, with eternal lids apart,_  
_Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,_  
_The moving waters at their priestlike task_  
_Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,_  
_Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask_  
_Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —_  
_No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,_  
_Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,_  
_To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,_  
_Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,_  
_Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,_  
_And so live ever — or else swoon to death._

"… Charles?"

"I—"

"Use your words."

"I-I'm terribly sorry, Erik, but as lovely as this discussion has been, I'm afraid we must cut it short. If you don't throw me down and fuck me on this table right now, I won't be responsible for my actions."

"Really? The trick is poetry, then, hm?"

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day that is still clothed and hasn't locked the door?"

"This isn't over, Charles."

"I certainly hope not."

"I will be composing an argument in favor of my teaching weaponry and defense, to be given at a later date. There will be graphs."

"And I wait for it with bated breath, Professor Lehnsherr. Now remove your trousers."

**Author's Note:**

> Poem is "Bright Star" by John Keats.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] You've such a lovely temperature](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847250) by [annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annapods/pseuds/annapods)




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